


Oh Look, A Dragon

by Airy (hn209486)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, dorky headcanons alert for my inquisitor/dorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-14 10:35:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3407462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hn209486/pseuds/Airy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dynamics behind Luthian Lavellan and Dorian Pavus's relationship, and what it is exactly that makes them unique. Includes one-shots. Will be continued as characters progress. Anything from fluff, to humor, to horrendously frizzy hair on the Storm Coast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> as said, a series of drabbles for my male inquisitor and his boyfriend Dorian Pavus, based around my thoughts on my character and head canons on Dorian.

“Help the inquisitor!” 

Dorian’s voice blasted across the field before Luthian was even fully aware of what was happening. When you’re fighting a dragon, things tend to go too fast. Everything starts beating. You hear war drums in your ears and the air gets too hot and everyone is yelling. Things happen too fast to comprehend, but Luthian did have the sense of _I’m about to lose my arm_ when the dragon clamped its jaw around him and _flung_ to elf across the clearing.   
  
Knight Enchanter or not, his regenerating barriers could only do so much.   
  
They had taken on enough dragons, taken _down_ enough dragons. Dorian’s hair had gotten seared off at times and the Bull had enough scars to show for the struggles. Luthian would be lying if he didn’t say he liked taking on the great beasts—but occasionally shit hit the fan.   
  
It was Sera that reached him first, not bothering to look at the current _burning_ arm and instead grabbing the inquisitor around the lower torso and somehow managing to drag the bigger man behind a rock before a wash of fire left the grass on the other side sizzling. No surprise, since Sera had enough strength to _break_ her bowstring if she wanted. 

“Hurting over here!” Her voice make Luthian give a barking laugh, sweat making his forehead feel damp and his hair sticky.   
  
“Bit off a bit more than we could chew, eh?”  
  
“Pffffft. I liked you more when you ran like a prissy little girl from dragons.” Despite the pain in his arm—the one with the anchor, of course—Luthian managed to grin, though it fell when Dorian came skidding around the side of the rock and crouched to avoid a crackling ball of purple… _hell_. The Bull’s roar echoed as he likely lodged his axe into some fleshy part of the beast.   
  
“I _say_ , this high beast has a certain way of ruining my fun tonight, hm?” Sera’s cackling laughter left Luthian red in the face, but Dorian grinned at him with white teeth, conjuring up a spell and hovering it over the arm, “Stop fighting these damned beasts just because the Bull finds it arousing, you daft idiot.”   
  
“Makes our night so much better, though.” Luthian suspected Dorian would have laughed if he hadn’t suddenly let out a more than girlish shriek as his elbow popped back into place.

* * *

“Atrocious, the way your hair frizzes up here.” 

Luthian wasn’t sure whether to sigh or slap him, but he was more than sure that Dorian was trying to get a rise out of him. Spindley fingers rose to tug through the mess of tangles on his head as the Storm Coast rained down on them, the humidity leaving his face sleek.   
  
“I can’t exactly help it. It just _does_.”   
  
Dorian scoffed, rolling his eyes and stamping his staff on the ground, producing a series of sparks, “You could do _everything_ to help it. The inquisitor, with hair bigger than the Bull’s horns! I can barely stand to be seen in your presence. Even _giant_ spit would tame it more than whatever your doin—“   
  
“You absolutely _love_ to be seen with me,” Grinning playfully, and thankful that the trees around them, while bare and white barked, hid the camp from view, Luthian found himself darting forward to wrap his arms around Dorian’s waist—causing the man to harrumph and try to wiggle free.   
  
“You do _me_ shame—I’m like to dump you unfashionable self at this very moment—“   
  
“You would _never_ ,” Dorian was fishing for a different sort of rise now, and Luthian was more than pleased to give it to him, rising on his tippy toes to press his lips against Dorian’s, who immediately grasped the small elf around the waist and spun him around, leaning them both against a tree. For a moment, Luthian laughed against the Tevinter’s lips, but it wasn’t long before Dorian’s tongue begged for access, and Luthian found his legs propped up around the taller mans waist, holding him up against the tree.   
  
Breathless, Luthian broke the kiss and almost immediately squeaked as his lover nipped his neck aggressively, “The camp is _five meters away_ , Dorian—“ He barely managed to whisper the words in a hush.   
  
“Than you better not scream for once, darling.”

* * *

 

“Oh, _stop_ that.” 

Dorian’s hand grabbed his, pulling the dark liner away from his face, leaving the tattoos, staining the skin where he had drawn them again and again, only covering half of his face. This time, Luthian’s frown at the Tevinter was serious, and he found himself jerking his hand free with a pout.   
  
“Do you suddenly have a problem?”  
  
“With licking those off your face every night? Yes.”  
  
“Not my fault you are as sloppy as the guardsman you told me about—“   
  
A gasp, “You _wouldn’t_ dare compare me to that _brute of a man!”_  
  
There was an extended pause, and then the two of them began to laugh. Dorian almost seemed about to drop the subject, until Luthian turned back to the mirror, raising the pencil back to his face. The grip Dorian took on his wrist was much more gentle this time, and he tugged the hand down and spun Luthian around with ease, so his back was against the sink and Dorian’s leg rested idly between the inquisitors thighs.   
  
“I’m serious, Luthian.” Dorian’s thumb came up, smudging the carefully drawn markings across the elf’s face. Luthian’s stomach did an uneasy flip, and for once he turned his face away from his lover.   
  
“Vhenan, I do not draw those on because I feel like making a nuisance for myself every morning. I draw them on because they mean something.”   
  
“So get them tattooed.”  
  
“I never _earned_ that right.”   
  
An extended pause between the two of them, which ended with Luthian turning his head down, eyes shifting upwards to stare at the taller Tevinter. His eyes were dark, and his lips set into a thin and stubborn line, “I don’t see how that is possible. Does every elf not… get that right to have their face… lined?”   
  
Luthian shook his head, “It’s not even that—I’m a special case… My sister… showed an extended affinity for everything she did, while I never excelled at anything. I had magical talent but… It was never… My parents felt that if they held me back from getting these I might be more driven to specialize—“   
  
“But you _have_ specialized now—“  
  
“Do you always have to interrupt me when I speak?” The inquisitor didn’t mean for his voice to sound so venomous, but that was how it happened, and Dorian looked undeniably taken aback, “What matters is that I never got the _ritual_. And I never thought that _I_ earned to go back and get it. So I draw them on, because it’s the little bit of shame that reminds me of what I work for—“   
  
He could tell by the hardness in Dorian’s eyes that he thought it was ridiculous, and when Luthian thought about it, it really was. The tattoo’s meant something religiously, and were not only earned by skill, but this… this had always been a personal struggle for him. One he had made himself.   
  
“Well then,” Dorian stepped back, releasing Luthian from his capture against the sink, “At the very least start to use powder, they won’t smear off during every battle. You look ridiculous the majority of the time.”   
  
Luthian wanted to smile. It wasn’t a victory but it… was something.

* * *

 

A _horrible_ bet. 

This table had some of the most influential, important, powerful people of Thedas around it, and this _horrible bet_ might as well ruin it all.

“Chickening out?” The hot whisper in his ear left a small shiver running down his spine, and his hand tightened around the stem of his wine glass, the red liquid sloshing as he jerked a small amount as Dorian’s hand landed on his knee.   
  
“You have no faith in me.” Except Dorian was practically right. Luthian had already almost chickened out… five? Six times? The table around them was filled with chatter, discussing political status and movements into other regions and extending out alliances to various people… stuff that Luthian found interesting, but altogether boring to attend. He liked to be making the movements, the orders, from the background. This was very much not the background, and what Dorian had propositioned as in no way discrete.   
  
They had only been intimate for a number of months, and Luthian was lacking in experience in almost all areas of it. Yes, he knew how to… align things… and slather… and gods, his cheeks still went red at the thought, and he could barely keep himself from stuttering when Dorian brought up sex. One silly bet from Sera, and now they were playing a completely inappropriate game of… what had she called it? Fire truck?   
  
If _Josephine_ knew, gods help him now.   
  
His hand landed on Dorian’s knee, and the Tevinter smiled coyly before turning to the woman sitting beside him and immediately starting up a charming conversation that left her laughing obnoxiously enough that Luthian knew he would hear about how unappealing such an abrupt woman was later.   
  
Under the table, they may as well have been private as Dorian’s hand, very abruptly, started to stray, already near his inner thigh, causing the inquisitor to flinch and nearly stand up. The man beside him gave him an odd glance—some uppity bastard from Celene’s court, and Luthian gritted his teeth, ignoring the well placed chuckle from Dorian and turning to said man.   
  
“Sir Vassal, if I’m not mistaken…?”   
  
A rather heated glare from across the table caught his attention, however. Cassandra, of all people, was boring a hole through his head, and Luthian’s face continued to go more red, getting distracted from the task at hand as his fingers attempted to fuddle their way up Dorian’s inner thigh. _Divine, save him_ , and he didn’t even fully believe in the Divine.   
  
The button of his pants came undone with a pop. The wine glass in his hand nearly tipped over. Cassandra had crossed her arms, and Sir Vassal was ranting about something to do with… the curtains? What in lords name…?  
  
He didn’t even manage to get at Dorian’s infuriatingly buckled pants undone before the damned Tevinter magister managed to—

A horrendous noise unlike anything that reminded him of between a nug and a druffalo emerged from his throat as Dorian’s hand slid right into the spot that _always_ made him scream, and the anchor on his hand blasted forth with a burst of green light that, of all things, shattered the wine glass.   
  
_Of all the times to be a mage—_

Cassandra was on her feet, Sir Vassal looked absolutely offended, and Dorian was snickering into the drink in his hand as if he hadn’t just embarrassed him in front of both courts of Thedas and the newly formed mage circle.   
  
“M-my lord, inquisitor! Is something wrong? Is it your hand—“ Josephines worried voice carried across the hall as she, of course, immediately began to rush over.   
  
“I’m fine!” He swore he didn’t mean to yell, but alas… “I mean—just a mishap—sometimes it gets to me—don’t worry yourself Josephine—“   
  
He would have Dorian’s _head_ after this—or maybe Sera’s.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> exam time. what does that mean? drabbles! 
> 
> angst warning for the end

The first time they slept together, Dorian left.   
  
It was customary. They were in the Inquisitor’s room, after all. The Inquisitor—Lúthian—could hardly be the one to leave, and it was nearly unthinkable, at least where he came from, for the lover to outstay his welcome. So before he thought Lúthian was awake, as much as Dorian would have liked to have inspected the smudged tattoos on his face or the way his hair fell across the pillow, he was climbing out from underneath the blanket.   
  
He barely got to reach for his clothing before the Inquisitor’s hand caught him around the wrist, those ridiculously slim fingers tightening and tugging Dorian back around to face him.   
  
“Running off so soon?” Lúthian’s voice was sleepy, and his eyes showed that he had, in fact, still been nearly unaware. There was a certain look in his eyes, however, and Dorian couldn’t help but give a small smile—which quickly turned into an aloof smirk as he took the Inquisitor’s hand in his own and raised it to his lips.   
  
“As comfortable as your bed is, I have more pressing matters to attend to, so I’ll be promptly out of your hair, Lord Inquisitor,” Dorian said, and he did revel slightly in the scowl that touched Lúthian’s lips when he did that. He hated being called the Inquisitor by him.   
  
“I can’t… convince you to stay?” There was that awkwardness, that innocence, that gave away the Inquisitor’s lack of experience. It was endearing, cute even, but Dorian would be lying if he said that it didn’t make him feel slightly uncomfortable. That… that was hope. He avoided hope as much as he could. Releasing Lúthian’s hand, he watched the arm fall back on top of the sheets he had previously occupied.   
  
“Try not to miss me too much,” His lilting voice echoed in the too large room as he grabbed his clothing, throwing pieces on haphazardly.   
  
“You can stay if you want,” Dorian sighed softly—Lúthian was as persistent as ever. Before this, they had barely even managed to get along. They had started off rocky, and perhaps it would have been better if it had stayed that way. The words _I don’t want to_ nearly passed his lips, but that would have been a lie. Instead, he finished buttoning his shirt, giving Lúthian a small smirk.   
  
“We’ll keep this fun, hm? Don’t go running off without me later today,” He said, and he didn’t let Lúthian get another word in—he was already gone, moving briskly across the room and closing the door behind him.   
  
He had to stop to lay his head against it for a moment, however, swearing in his head.   
  
In the bedroom, Lúthian laid his head on the pillow and wondered if he had done something wrong.

* * *

 

They had spent nearly a week in the Hinterlands now, and Dorian was beginning to wonder if they would ever leave the dreaded lands. Likely not, since the Inquisitor seemed to be attempting to fulfill every need, every want, every whim of the people who lived in the land.   
  
Dorian had to admit that his perseverance was touching, however.   
  
After spending a ridiculous amount of time chasing down a farmers Druffalo, who he had atrociously named Druffy, they had now stopped midday in the fields by the farms, setting up a precarious camp. In the distance, the flicker of a Rift could be seen, but they had all come to the conclusion that leaving it until morning, when the sun was rising and not setting, would be to their advantage.   
  
Just sitting down on one of the logs by the fire they had sat up, Dorian couldn’t help but jump when his elven lover suddenly appeared beside him—the white haired man moved with an eerie silence sometimes. The Inquisitor sat down beside him, not saying a word except to start to fiddle with his buckles.   
  
“Right out in the open, amatus? I swear, you are getting more daring by the day—what are you _doing_?” 

His incredulity was for good reason, seeing as the Inquisitor was currently looping the stems of a large handful of flowers through the belts of his armor, tying them off, his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth as he squinted at his handiwork before he looked at Dorian, saying with a grin, “I found some flowers while we were searching for the Druffalo!”  
  
Dorian swore that sometimes he thought he was dating a child.   
  
“I’m not your doll to dress up with flowers—“   
  
“Oh, stop struggling—“   
  
“Honestly, do you have any idea how humiliating this is—“

“If you love me at all, you’ll let me do it!”  
  
It was the _love_ that always got Dorian—because how many times had he loved a man? Lúthian’s wicked grin says that he knew that he had won, and he continued to tie flowers off into the armor. Dorian was starting to look like a flower child, and rather wanted to sneeze from the pollen.   
  
“You are incorrigible, amatus.”  
  
“Whatever you say, vhenan—besides, they’re good luck!”

* * *

 “You look stressed, amatus.”

  
Lúthian hadn’t even planned on stopping. His head was a whirlwind of problems. Everything was happening too fast, everyone wanted something from him! He was certain that anyone who saw him must have thought he was losing it, because his hair was frizzing up, and his eyes looked wild, and his clothing were starting to get too big—

So not many people had been seeing much of him. He had either been completing requests too quickly, ordering ahead research, judging people, or doing other ‘Inquisitor’ stuff that he just had pretty much avoided most of his friends—there was a reason people always said his sister was better built for this, and this was _it_ right here. This was all it was! He wasn’t a leader, he was no leader!  
  
“I _am_ stressed,” he snapped, and Dorian looked outright taken aback, book in hand and legs crossed in his chair in the library, “Everyone needs something, nobody can do anything without the ‘heraldy holiness’s’ advice! Leliana keeps talking about murder and Josephine won’t get off my back about the drapery and Cullen wants me to go observe the troops but I don’t have _time_ —“   
  
He had stepped closer to speak to his lover, which meant that Dorian was close enough to reach out and grab his wrist, tugging him closer.   
  
“Now, now, amatus. You’re obviously stressing yourself out—take a break, right now, perhaps—“   
  
“I don’t have _time_ , Dorian, did everything I just say go over your _head_ —“   
  
“ _Nothing_ goes over my head—now sit down,” Dorian gave a sharp tug on his wrist, and the tiny elven man couldn’t help but half stumble, half fall into his lap. Dorian had put the book aside, and despite Lúthian’s obvious scowl wrapped his arms around his torso, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, “Josephine will manage to handle the draperies, I promise you that—she’s nearly as resourceful as me.”   
  
Lúthian couldn’t help it—he deflated. Exhaling, he snuggled into his lovers chest, pressing his face into the curve of his neck, and sighed, “Maybe you’re right, vhenan.”  
  
“Oh, I’m _always_ right.”   
  
Lúthian laughed as he pulled his legs up into his lovers lap, enjoying to just rest there while Dorian read around him. 

* * *

Lúthian had never seen Dorian cry quite like this.

Not with eyes that seeped and clenched fists and shaking shoulders and no noise. He had seen him tear up before, angrily call out, but never really weep silently, yet the letter in his hand had forced him to tears.   
  
“…Dorian?”   
  
Dorian simply shivered, still looking at the letter. Lúthian could have swore that he would scream now, would yell out, would do something more than just sit there and weep in silence, but the silence stretched on anyway, and Lúthian took a step forward.   
  
“…Do you want to talk about it, vhenan?”   
  
“I believe I need a drink,” Dorian’s voice cracked, and Lúthian knew then that drinking was far from the best idea right now—it would surely make the Tevinter magister feel better, but Lúthian had slowly seen Dorian use alcohol as an escape less and less since the Inquisition had closed the rift in the sky for good. Things had been looking up.   
  
The Inquisitor stepped forward, putting a hand out, willing to be denied, but Dorian pressed the paper into Lúthian hand, and it only took glancing over the first few words to understand. 

 _Lord Pavus_  
  
_We are regrettable to inform you of the passing on of your father, Halward Pavus, to the unfortunate circumstance of heart failure—_

“My father, _dead_.” Dorian gave a bitter laugh, rubbing at the tears that refused to stop falling down his cheeks even as he shook his head, “The old man died on me…” Lúthian slowly set down the letter as Dorian continued, “I mean, I was angry at him, but he still… still raised me… was still my dad…” His voice broke again, and Lúthian placed one hand on his shoulder.   
  
“I am so, so sorry, Dorian.”

Dorian turned and wrapped his arms around Lúthian’s waist, pressing his face into his chest as the chair nearly toppled beneath him, only falling back into place as Lúthian stepped forward and wrapped his own arms around Dorian in turn.   
  
“I…”   
  
“I know.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not so much a drabble, but still cute!

They have been together for nearly a year now.  
  
Lúthian thinks that the sun rises and falls on Dorian, even a year into this, and Dorian looks at Lúthian the way he has only looked at one other man in his life, and that was before he felt like it was right to love him. The Inquisition is balanced, the threat of Corypheus is gone, and they are happy.   
  
Josephine has a child, and the little cretin seems to scream louder than the other abundance of children around Skyhold, that fill the halls with their laughter and love to grab onto Bull’s horns and be lifted up, or to pick at Cassandra until she mock chases them across the yard. At one point, three of them come pattering through the library, and Dorian gives them what Lúthian can only call a venomous look.   
  
“Someone doesn’t like children?” Lúthian gives him a grin, a playful one, and Dorian rolls his eyes and hefts up his book, looking over it at his lover.   
  
“Something that spits that much and is destined to have a horrible haircut is the least of my concerns,” he said, and Lúthian laughed—but he agreed.   
  
“I don’t like children either,” His hands plucked a book off the shelf, flipping through it and scanning the words with mindless disinterest.   
  
“A match made in heaven, we are,” Lúthian couldn’t stop his dorky grin and the warmth at his cheeks—even after nearly two years, he still couldn’t help himself from blushing like an idiot anytime Dorian referred to their relationship.   
  
“I’d much rather be travelling, fighting dragons, living life, than being tied down by one of… them,” He nodded towards the children, who were currently making a ruckus in Solas’s former room,   
  
“I entirely agree,” Dorian returned to his book at that point, sniffing haughtily. Lúthian only grinned and did the same, easing himself into the second chair he had gotten placed in the alcove so he could sit with the Tevinter and read in comfortable silence with him.

* * *

Dorian’s opinion changed because of books. 

Little books, with maybe thirty pages, and ridiculous storylines meant to convey important ‘messages’. Colorful books, with dragons and dwarfs and humans and elves painted onto the pages, crossing fields and climbing mountains and finding the many secrets of the world.   
  
It was Bull’s child that caught him. The little Qunari was a handful, but if there was one thing he loved, it was too read. Bull liked to joke that ‘Ol’ Uncle Dory must have rubbed off on him!’ to which Dorian would growl and complain to not be called Dory. One night, though, Bull couldn’t be there, and had asked Dorian to get his brat kid to bed while him and his mother was away.   
  
Dorian had spluttered and coughed, “ _Me_ , take care of your kid? _Ridiculous_.”   
  
Bull had just laughed and patted him on the shoulder, hard enough to make his knees buckle, and Dorian had been left to deal with the child. Luckily, the kid was fine to take care of himself—until it was time to put him to sleep, in which he looked at Dorian with gooey eyes and begged him to read to him from one of his abundance of children’s books.   
  
Dorian had eyed him from the side, “Can’t you read yourself, yet?”  
  
“Da always reads to me!”  
  
Dorian wanted to say ‘I’m not your da’, but instead reached for one of the books begrudgingly, lowering himself down on the kid’s bed and flipping the page open. It was a book about a nug, who got an injured leg and had to be taken care by the kind woman who took him in. The kid was already enraptured, and Dorian couldn’t help but be enraptured as well as he told the story.   
  
“You have to do voices!”  
  
“Preposterous! I shall not—“  
  
“But you _must_!”  
  
So Dorian did exaggerated voices, adding in huge hand gestures, and read the kid nearly five books, finding each and every one oddly… magical. His father had never allowed him to get these sorts of books, and to think that his childhood could have consisted of these sorts of tales.   
  
He asked the kid if he could borrow some of the books, and the kid agreed, and once asleep Dorian found himself wandering out with a large armful of children’s books.   
  
Lúthian caught him coming back to their room, and gave him an incredulous look, “You’re not going soft on me, are you?”  
  
“Don’t sound so petrified. I’m not about to start forcing children onto you.”  
  
“You better not! They suck.”

Dorian couldn’t stop from feeling weirdly fuzzy on the inside, however—and a little ill.

* * *

For Lúthian, it was his sister. 

He had seen his sister hurt, by Solas’s leaving, and had hounded Cullen during the entire courting, threatening him that if he left her, hurt her… The Inquisitor was rather sure that Cullen was _still_ scared of him. However, with a ring on her finger and tears in her eyes, Malinche had grown happier than Lúthian could ever have thought, and he knew that every minute they were apart, as she remained keeper of their clan and they often could not be together, was excruciating to her.   
  
When she told him she was pregnant, with a glowing face and stars in her eyes, he was taken aback, “Y—you’re pregnant?”  
  
“Yes! Isn’t it wonderful?”   
  
“I thought you didn’t want children—“  
  
“That’s something lots of young ladies say, Lúthian! I changed my mind,” She kissed him on the cheek, and moved over to give Bull the good news, leaving Lúthian with his mouth agape. 

The nine months that Malinche carried the child was an experience for Lúthian, but it was when the child was born that really shook him.   
  
It was the radiance in her face as she talked about the little girl to Cullen, them trying to decide on a name and finally settling on Aja, after their mother. It was Malinche beckoning him closer, and letting him hold the small child. Aja’s head rested again him, and her tiny fingers curled, and she _cooed_ , and Lúthian felt something he never thought he would—in fact, his entire body felt warm  


* * *

They were both reading when it happened. 

Lúthian said it so casually that it could have passed between them without a further word, “I think I may want a child someday.”  
  
Dorian had looked up from the book to look at the elven inquisitor, who was tense and obviously stressed, and replied with a coy smile, “I never thought I would hear those words out of you. Luckily, I agree.”  
  
Lúthian immediately relaxed. That same warm feeling from before was back, and maybe, in a couple of years, he’d feel it for a child other than Aja.


End file.
